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London to the Sahara desert: A school holiday adventure overland (and sea)

“We had better invent a rapid check-list” I insisted, as we stood in the Eurostar queue the day after Easter, about to embark on a journey of 4 countries, 2 continents, and 17 separate journeys.

“5 suitcases… 3 rucksacks….a scooter and,… a snack bag” my nine-year old helped me piece together, whilst the five-year old did some breakdance moves and the three-year old dived into the aforementioned snack bag. 'Not bad for light packing' I thought to myself.



Admittedly, the idea to go to the Sahara desert had evolved. First it was trains to Spain, then it was “it’s only an hour’s ferry to Morocco!”, and then it was the lure of camels and a nomadic Beber camp – my wanderlust heart couldn’t refuse.


In a triumphant start, we got all the way to Barcelona on day one, thanks to the high-speed Paris-Barcelona train and a very early start from London. A Eurail pass (www.eurail.com - we had a family global one), helps with confidence, a system to follow and money saved on expensive trains, but it is also clunky and seat reservations are limited, so 6am it was.


By the time we were speeding through the south of France I felt my shoulders relax. Cypress trees and terracotta roofs flashed by, turning into oyster beds at dusk framed by the Pyrenees.


I pulled out my book and in a snatched moment of calm, eased into what I love about train travel – the ability to shake off the weekly routine and let new ideas in.

From Barcelona we joined the impressive national Spanish rail RENFE (www.renfe.com/es/en) on to Madrid and Seville, enjoying the retro-styled spacious seats alongside women in sunglasses, white tops and canvas shoes. Arriving into Seville brought the smell of cherry blossom in the air, hearty tapas on every corner, geometric designs, and a hot air balloon rising above the rooftop swimming pool. We bustled through the tourist-filled streets and I was reminded how train travel gifts you the non-touristy side of a country.


Not much further south was the white-washed port town of Tarifa, with surfer shops and paragliders rising above the waves. There stood the metaphorical gate to Morocco  - the FRS ferry (www.frs.es/en), easy to book and easy to board.  The ship’s TV screen was set to a ‘bad weather’ setting and so I sat in the middle as the boat surged up and down, trying to pretend to my kids it was all fine. Luckily they didn’t know any better.  


As we stepped onto African soil, I explained to the smartly dressed border control guard “It’s their first time on the continent”. “Welcome” he said, with a broad smile, “it’s the first time and not the last”. We stepped into Morocco’s national story of ambition and progress. Tangiers train station boasted of five years of Al Boraq, its slick high-speed rail, and we joined the ambitious young people commuting on it. Moroccan trains are easy to book (www.oncf-voyages.ma), and for any help consult the legendary Man in Seat 61 site (https://www.seat61.com ) or reach out to Peter at Marrakesh Tickets (www.marrakechtickets.co.uk).


As we changed onto a regional service the trains got delayed and busier. The 5 suitcases, 3 rucksacks, scooter and a snackbag somehow got on with us, with the help of many pairs of hands passing them along. Hot, sticky and squashed, I resorted to Colour I Spy with the kids – an orange suitcase, a white headscarf and shiny red trainers, all going home to prepare for Eid. Later we reached into the snackbag to share food with our fellow passengers as they broke their fast at sunset and offered us dates, apples and semolina bread.


Then came the real highlights. In Fes our family cooking class (with Cafe Clock www.cafeclock.com) was a day of market stalls and cooking pots full of coriander, cumin, ras el hanout and apricots. Little hands in bowls marinating lamb, shredding parsley and dipping strawberries in chocolate. Deep in the old medina, the rooms in the cooking school were as topsy-turvy as the streets we got lost in outside. “If we keep going left” I said, “we must recognise something eventually”. “It smells like goats’ observed the three-year-old while his brother pronounced  “I think we’re lost”.





The tour-led journey to the desert was easier. Green landscape turning into semi-desert then only sand punctuated by sporadic desert town architecture.

If, on a journey like this, you leave more of your thinking and culture behind in every place, by the desert everything felt simple.  People who live in the desert are wise, a taxi driver in a neighbouring country once told me. Perhaps we get a little bit wiser there too. 

Camels, of course, are the ultimate travel companions, and after the inevitable fright as they lurch up, we settled into their rhythm leaving behind thoughts and worries to just ‘be’ and enjoy the expansiveness of the dunes at sunset. Only the three-year-old could remember the camel’s name – its Beber label as easy to pick up as Spanish ones for his ear. The silence of the desert descended around the camp, the Beber drumming rose and we savoured the moment and the quiet wisdom it brought – when the noise of life dies down, the important things are the important things.


And just like that, we were up to watch the sunset and it was time to turn back and travel north again.

That’s the thing about train travel - coming home feels just as sweet as the adventure that takes you further and further away.

2300km away from home: the night train from Marrakesh to Fes started racking up the miles ready to leave the continent. 1800km on the ferry back into Europe: I breathed a small sigh of relief to be free from tipping, haggling and bottled water. 1600km: we exchanged the heat of southern Spain for comfy jumpers. 1100km: the expensive hotels in Barcelona were left behind. 1000km: we crossed over the border to France with Paris now in sight for a last celebratory dinner at a corner bistro. 460km and 4.30am: we easily woke up sleepy children for the Eurostar by telling them “we’re going home”. 7km from home: the Eurostar door swung open into welcoming St Pancras. Mint tea turning into sangria, into the Parisian’s aperol spritz and finally a London flat white.

Perhaps we go away in order to come home. I am one half adventurer and the other half a creature of comfort.

On day 10, my daughter started quoting the book she’d been reading to her younger brother ‘Those Magnificent Sheep in their Flying Machine’, having surprisingly memorised every page. She looked at me with a sparkle in her eyes: “Where next?” said old Ramsbottom. What about Chile? Or China? Or Rome? But the other sheep all shook their heads and said: “Home!” Travel is fun! Every person should try it! But there’s no place like home if you want peace and quiet.


Two days later I sat in my own peace and quiet at the kitchen table, after the kids had tumbled out of the door for the first day back at school. Scooter and rucksacks returned to their normal uses.  The trail of clean-smelling uniform, disheveled hair and hastily filled-in reading records leaving a sudden quiet. I reached for my phone. Now, what was that route to Istanbul the couple we'd met on the train had talked about….?



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